


Sorrow's headache

by Sagealina



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sagealina/pseuds/Sagealina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leading the Inquisition would give anyone a headache. Doing so with whispers of the ancient Elvhan was a pure migraine. Fortunately there are advisors to delegate tasks and a lovely woman who knows how to get him to relax. Even though she rarely does herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continue maybe? I feel as if I could leave it at that or still work with 'The well of sorrows' storyline if there's interest.

Orlen Lavellan had had enough for the day. The fingers of his hand were pressed on his right brow. The elbow of the same appendage was propped up on the Avvar style throne's armrest. He drew slow circles on his temple to try stemming the sharp pain within his skull as concentrated. The were so many whispers! Most of them agreeing with each other, but not always. Drawing a conclusion from their collective reasoning was very taxing when he was forced to listen. There were moments where he could turn it off. This was not one of them. As it happened more often then not when he was passing judgment as lord Inquisitor.

\---/crops are the gold/perish the/tend to the/people will not eat coin/for the next moon cycles/warning---

“Send grain worth 1/10th of your production of this year's yield. Since you do not have the coin to pay the protective taxes which was asked of you by the Inquisition. You may as well feed the soldiers who patrol your lands keeping your peace, if you cannot pay a portion of their wages. Next year will be an entirely different matter and we will reassess.”

The Orlesian human land-lord bowed deeply, still nervous from the verdict but immensely pleased that nothing nefarious had come from his inability to pay tithes to the Inquisition. The man shuffled backwards to have his place taken by another. A string of common folk, nobles and important guests that would require another few hours to attend to. He sighed and pressed his temple more firmly.

Luckily Josephine, head cocked to the side and ever attentive to his atmosphere, made a show of a flourish of her quill. As if indicating the end of a list of things on her note-board. He was fairly certain he was only halfway through it.

“Gentlemen, lords and ladies. You have been very patient in waiting to bring your important concerns to our Lord Inquisitor. However, I am afraid his attention is needed elsewhere and that these issues will have to be brought to him at a later time.”

Being Dalish, Orlen had never had to set foot in court and play the game. It was very different from the nomadic Clan culture he grew up in. As Josephine excelled at politics, she had been refining his decorum. This was adding to his already impressive arsenal of capabilities, as he had managed quite well during their pursuit of Corphyeus. He had bought the attention-seeking nobility with his golden tan skinned smiles and his exotic Dalish charms and customs. Despite being an elf. Unique in the court of Orlais. A novelty at the winterball that they would remember for years to come. During judgments and political gatherings, his dark-forest Vallaslin and deep green eyes gave him the look of a calculating wild animal staring down its prey. Especially when he furrowed his brows. As a hunter for his Clan, he'd developed and practiced an intense gaze which he put to good use. Unsettling to the less warmongering individuals. Putting them in their places with his steady leadership, sure voice and asuredness. Although, when at rest, pensive or neutral mood; His sharp defining elven ears and the rest of his features gave him the look of a noble flighty stag. Commanding presence and charisma all-the same, even when not giving orders.

His head humming with whispers of the voices from the well of sorrows, he probably currently looked like a wet cat in his misery. If Josephine's worried look gave him any indication! The varied petitioners left huffing, an attendant whisking them towards the ante-chamber. He finally breathed a sigh of relief as they exited.

“Those who claim your attention are trying at best. But I did make sure to address the bulk of them myself. These are just a few required judgments for appearances. You seem tired, are you well my Lord?”

Orlen grinned in pained appreciation of her worry. “Yes, just... a persistent headache that's all.”

“Then do retire Lavellan, I will take care of the rabble for you.” Josephine's pearly white teeth peeked from her lips in that signature half smile of hers.

Orlen knew she meant business when she addressed him with his clan-name. It was the closest to his name that she would ever come to without tacking the honorary title of 'Worship, Lord, Herald, Inquisitor or something other. She would settle for nothing less from him than his full-compliance to the idea of rest. He kept his pained grin plastered on his face. Closing his eyes and waving a dismissive hand in a good-natured sign of thank you and acquiescence. He was too tired to argue as he fought his own mind. Tumultuously flowing with dozens of ancient long-gone elven partitioners whispers. 

Raising from the Inquisitorial throne, he stumbled to his quarters' tower. Dreading the dozens of stairs leading to his goal of the blissful oblivion that was sleep. If he could manage to both climb them and fall into slumber with all the noise the voices made.

“It'll get better with practice. The hearing.” Cole suddenly interjected, seated at the edge of one of the windows halfway up the stairs to his room.

Orlen, used to Cole's sudden appearences and ever doting on the boy who was not a boy. One of his brow arched in question.

“The voices, outside but also inside. They are far away and cold. So long have they not had eager ears and eyes to watch for sorrows to sew and mend and warm them from their own griefs and regrets. Learning from mistakes and passing the wisdom on.”

The inquisitor groaned. Pondering on Cole's interpretation of the well's whispers was almost as bad as trying to glean understanding from the voices themselves. 

“I'm sorry, I'm making it worse am I?” Cole jumped down. “I can make you forget the voices a bit. Maybe be part of the hearing and dull it by listening to them for a while for you..." He hesitated "If you'd like me to be part of the hearing that is... in your head. Uh... ” Cole did not seem certain if he should. Especially since he suggested entering his mind. Something akin to possession. 

As always he was eager to help. Ever compassionate as always. Orlen pushed his lopsided shoulder length hair over his right ear absentmindedly. Feeling hot and feverish with the pain.

“No. Its alright Cole. I made the decision to drink and receive Mythal's blessings and while they do get loud sometimes, I need to get used to them and gain some ability and control of my own 'hearing'.”

The boy's head dipped in thought and then back up. “Its like myself when there was a hole in the sky. Too loud for spirits' hearing. Difficult to tell which voices are your own. It got easier.” His voice rose. "For me it did at least. I understand, I hope that helps.”

Chuckling, Lavellan pat Cole on the shoulder amicably without hesitation and continued to make headway up the stairs. Understanding the conversation to be over, the boy who was not a boy disappeared in that strange manner of his when he was no longer needed. But his words weren't forgotten. Lavellan pondered on his words as the voices also did.

\---/part of a whole and separate/woven together with strings of other thoughts/made reel but free from festering wounds/forgotten links to home and discovered jewels of self and sacrifice for nobel causes/---

He knew the voices spoke of what Cole had become, but he was not in his right mind to understand. There was a sense of the voices being both elated and sad at the loss of something. But he couldn't understand it...yet.

As soon as he reached his flat, a human servant stood up from a crouched position at his fireplace mantel. She finished the motion of laying firewood on the side and bowed courteously before leaving. 

He literally let himself crash on his divan facing the fire as he let some of the whispers simply flow over him. Trying to find a method or manner in which they bothered him the least. They did fade into the backdrop somewhat. Leaving him in his own mind to deal with the headache the whispers had caused in the first-place. After an hour or so of meditating, the headache seemed simply to intensify. He groaned after a while of complaisance. Standing up to his his wash dresser to pour water into the porcelain dish from a regularly refilled water jug. He soaked a clean cloth and returned to his sofa with the intent to lay there with the cool square linen until he forgot himself completely in meditation or went to sleep.

Orlen's pointed sensitive ears picked up the soft but sure foot of someone wearing chainmail. Carrying cups on a trays if the small tink of either tin or clay on wood was any clue. Small details were vital for a hunter to pick up. It was why he had been selected by his clan's keeper originally to spy upon the conclave after all. There would be only one individual who would feel free to enter his quarters, with softer steps than a man's and wearing that much creaking leather. He remained comfortably immobile under his cool washcloth.

The tray was set on the side and a soft noise and movement on the cushions. The slip of a hand that gently caressed his cheek and lifted the cloth from his eyes and forehead to bestow a shy sympathetic smile. Unusual on the often grim face of the woman he loved. He couldn't help but smile slightly himself, despite the pain.

“Hush now, I have brought you some tea for the pain. Cole told me your head aches again.” Cassandra started to remove her armor, making herself more comfortable. The sun was setting behind the large Frostback mountain peek. 

"He would do that wouldn't he..." He mumbled, not unhappily. Simply in pain.

“I brought you some fruit as well, if you would eat. I don't want you getting any scrawnier than you already are.” She teased. 

Orlen could find no energy to respond, as he removed the cloth and made for the cup of brewed tea. Cassandra's brow furrowed as she worried for him. He sighed after the first bitter sip. The warmth welcome, despite the taste.

“I will...”

“The voices are troubling you again aren't they?” She cut him. “All things considered I wished you would have let the apostate witch drink.”

They had had this conversation before. Another shouting match between them was not something he had the energy for. Nor would it change the past.

“The headaches are lesser as time goes by. I'll eat.” He interrupted, as she was about to interject. 

Content that he took her proffered comfort foods. Those small gestures of affection which Cassandra did not openly show him in public. She oftentimes had trouble doing so when they were alone. It was simply not in her nature. Or perhaps it was, but it was buried under a veritable mountain of duty and direction which she couldn't easily untangle. She reached hesitantly towards him, which was again not her habit. 'Hesitant' would be the last words to ever describe Cassandra Pentaghast. Yet she still did so. Rubbing affectionately at his cheek, progressing towards caressing the back of his neck.

He groaned in unfeigned pleasure as she applied more pressure behind where his pointed ears sprung. The juncture connected to his neck muscles relaxed and he supposed his headache may come from stressed muscles as much as the voices of the well.

“You enjoy?”

“Very much so.” He answered, placing a last piece of fruit in his mouth and turning his attention to his lover.

Emboldened, she straddled him. He leather pauldron and pants emitting stretching sounds as she did. Orlen's heart sped excitedly for a moment along with the pounding of his head. Subsiding with the gentle caress and massage of his beloved of his temple, nape, neck and shoulder. He had long ago closed his eyes and let himself be carried into a daze of pleasant feathery touches when he felt the ghosts of her lips upon his own.

“Hmm...” His voice purred and rumbled. “You are attentive to me this evening.”

“I...” The warrior woman turned her head aside and blushed.

“Ma Lethalin, take it as a compliment.” He shifted under her, reminding her of their position, which made her blush a deeper scarlet. Then she scowled, as was her habit when she confronted obstacles that stood against her will. Whether it was because she did not understand the elven words for 'my lovely lady', or because she did not like to feet foolish- He would never know.

Orlen simply smiled and sighed, appreciating her attention. He fell back into the comforter, trying to coax more doting on her part. It was so rare that she showed herself so feminine and caring. She was a tigress amongst men. Pushing and forcing her will and change to occur around her. He loved her drive and passion but never forgot that underneath it all she was all woman with a sensitive romantic heart.

He purred earnestly as she resumed her caresses. This time the tone of his voice indicating a different kind of contentment he hoped she would pursue. Truthfully, she had gotten his mind off of his headache and it was now just a dull thump which bothered him as much as an itch. He now had a different kind of yearning to scratch now.

“Cassandra, you don't...” 

She placed a finger to his lips. “If I come to you like this, and place myself in your lap. Accept that this is also something that I want.” It wasn't a question.

He found no flaw in her logic and arched up to indicate his agreeability. Cassandra chuckled, ever pragmatic and down to business. Humoured him with some steady delicious frottage over his groin until he whimpered he could take no more and they both moved to the bed.

Whether from wanting more skin contact or that his clothing were chaffing him, both were equally good answers. Tenderly she bit the underside of his throat. Orlen had to acquiesce that she was the one who wore the pants and led in bed. Whether it was simply her nature as fighter, habit commanding the battlefield, or by witholding her own sexual appetite for so long... The Dalish elf participated but rarely led their dances. She commanded his attention as much as she did their lovemaking. Not that he was ever passive! It was simply a nice change of pace.

He drew her in an embrace when she opened his formal jacket and lifted her own clothing above her head as he breathed her scent in. Permitting the both of them feel each other's heat and drive their passion higher. He felt her hand press upon his chest and he lay down for her as she finished divesting the both of them. Grinding, gyrating and rubbing. Both calming, hypnotizing and exciting at the same time. She rode him expertly, bringing the both of them to a height he was at first cautious to reach. Wishing to avoid aggravating his headache in exertion. However he let her crash his body upon the waves her passion created. He groaned his pleasure as he eventually released within her. Unable to do anything else but follow her lead. As the pleasure subsided and his senses returned he realized that the whole encounter had managed to drown the voices. He then worried about her own satisfaction, as she slowed the pace without reaching her own peek. Brows furrowing, he opened his mouth to protest. Not wishing for her to part a dissatisfied lover.

“There will other times for that. Sleep for now.” 

Cassandra never lied, she said things as they were. Straight and true and commanding. Orlen felt inadequate suddenly. That and blessed. She placed a kiss on his brow and her gentle cooing did wonders. As he was already tired, it did not take much to have him comply. He let her tuck him in, warm and loved and cherished. He hoped he knew how deeply he felt for her, as sleep took him alongside the dull whispers in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Reading the reports on the excavations of another elven ruin was most probably better done in the light of day. Orlen felt his eyes almost go cross. He would hold these for the morrow. He didn't wish to push his luck and trip another headache.

The voices of the well of sorrows were now much clearer and less harsh and demanding. He could bid it to recede and to come forth and louder with more fidelity when he needed it. Only since he had began his search of Elven ruins with the Inquisition's forces had the voices of the well of sorrows become tamed. Orlen felt that, as long as he stayed on this path, the voices would be less demanding. He suspect that this was the will of the well. It was their regrets. Their experiences of failure. Their wisdom through adversity and failing at a task set to them by Mythal.

He understood finally why its keeper's name was Abelas or 'sorrow'.

The Well was a relentless driver in his mind. Now that Corypheus was dealt with, it was primordial that he used his resources as the Inquisitor to discover more elven artifacts. Before he disappeared, Solas had divulged that more of the Foci were potentially lying around. He knew he would 'regret' it if he didn't. Thus, he understood that what motivated him now was not just his own concerns but in fact the well of sorrows itself influencing him.

“Would you... still follow me knowing this?” Orlen looked around the War table at his advisors and closest friends. “That what whispers to me may affect my judgment?”

At first, Orlen had been concerned that his actions would lead the Inquisition in the wrong direction. To make sure he was not the sole decision maker, he had confided with his advisors.

Cassandra agreed with him and simply insisted he keep them informed. They would judge him periodically if he were fit or not. They trusted him intrinsically. Whereas Cullen was much more concerned. As a former templar, he was naturally suspicious of magical influences. He was also preoccupied with securing their forces furthur and Josephine in strengthening their political alliances. Neither of them thought him particularly on the wrong path though.

As the Inquisitor, he was always busy strengthening the veil and closing the rifts that remained. It seemed that the Breech had permanently created ripples. Blood magic for any purpose and Red lyrium deposits occasionally created bubbling tears. As well known hero of the lands of Thedas, Orlen had now permanent respect from most of the Nations of Thedas. He moved freely in those nations and travelled where needed.

Leliana, as the new elected Divine Victoria had elected scout Harding to take her place. The steady and reliable female Dwarf had been more than instrumental during their whole endeavor against Corpheus. While no longer part of the Inquisition, she still would arrange meetings with him from time to time. Away from prying eyes and ears she had told him;

“No one can know for certain the minds of others. Though they may know you from their point of view. If you should stray from your well known goals and morals Inquisitor Lavellan, I am sure your closest friends will inform you.”

Dressed in fine garbs and holding herself with pride. Divine Victoria was perhaps right.

Orlen grabbed a cup set aside of strong sleeping tea and threw it back down into his stomach. The bitter after taste still could not be avoided and he grimaced slightly before setting all his work aside. Getting ready to turn over. He was in the process of removing his boots when he heard the door to his quarters tapped twice softly, open then close.

He smiled, happy that there was at least one thing stable in his life. Besides the cacophony of the Inquisition and world politics, he had his solid steady rock of a woman.

 

o0o

 

“Three then?” Orlen tightened the strap of his leather archer's gloves. Getting ready to ride on his red hart mount.

Cassandra, prime and proper, hands behind her back addressed him formally.

“Yes, the three which I have selected to found the base of the seekers of truth are; A former templar, an elven mage from the new college of Magi and a young Orlesian chevalier you no doubt remember? Michel de Chevin?”

Orlen 's chin tilted upwards momentarily in thought as he finished strapping the girth of his mount.

“Ah yes, the chevalier we met at Sahrnia.”

The female warrior nodded once, eyebrows set in her usual serious demeanour. “I have prepared them for their vigil.” She placed a gloved hand under her chin in thought. “The method of summoning the spirit of faith is lost to us or was not fully detailed in the former Lord Seeker's book. However I was thinking Inquisitor...”

“You can call me by name you know Cassandra...” He lifted a slender brown eyebrow, warping his tree-pattern Vallaslin in a look of comical mirth as he smiled. Teasing. Knowing the result before she replied.

“I'd rather not when on the subject of Inquisition business.” She stated plainly. Though she looked no less stern than before, she was not angry.

He kept his smile and shrugged his shoulders at her while she continued.

“... I had a mind to ask Cole to take up the task of breaking tranquility.”

“Cole?” Momentarily confused, Orlen crossed his arms and pondered. “Do you think it is wise that as a spirit of compassion he replace one of faith?”

Cassandra subconsciously imitated him, by crossing her own arms.

“Believe me when I say, I have thought long on the issue. The vigil is already an extremely demanding rite. It will last the same whole month and require them to submit to tranquility as well.” She parted a hand and gestured with it. “We do not have the luxury of sacrificing good men and women to a permanent state of tranquility as was the case before.”

“That does make sense. Have you talked to him about it?”

A gentle voice interrupted their conversation from atop the recently delivered supply crates from Redcliff's farms

.

 _-Turning conundrums around and looking at cases in newfound light. She sought the answer through long sleepless nights, gazing upon her shinning knight.-_ “It was I who suggested the answer. I am willing to help. Just as you all did for me.”

 

The spirit boy, appeared. Or... better yet, let himself be seen.

 

It always amazed Orlen how much more brighter Cole seemed, after the events of the Breech. The boy had a look of a sick malnourished child most of the time. Now he had a faint constant smile grazing his lips. His blonde hair almost shinning. Forgiving the templar had made the spirit boy happy. Though for anyone who did not know him, much more unnervingly supernatural with his abilities.

 

“Ah... good then.” He stated. Cole was always socially awkward. He meant well though, which was why he kept him around.

 

“So yes Inquisitor, Cole has agreed. But only if both I and he judges them harmless to pass. The vigil is an initiation. It is to cull the weak willed or the untrustworthy from the order.”

 

Setting his left foot in the stirrup, Orlen threw his weight over the great stag.

 

“I differ to your excellant judgment lady Pentaghast.”

 

 _-Though I take a split path that I ponder the source of sorrows which leads me to it. I leave with my leash within gentle strong fingers, to return me home by their bid.-_ “They both will guide you back Inquisitor. Never doubt that.”

 

“What?” Orlen started, but Cole was already gone. Whispering to himself under his breath.

The Dalish elf turned his mount and bent towards his beloved.

 

“I leave you to take care of things while I'm gone.”

 

“As you command Inquisitor.” Cassandra straightened.

 

A melancholic look crossed his features as he extended his hand to her. Cassandra, looking left and right worriedly, offered her armoured gloved hand to him. He promptly kissed it and smiled reassuringly at her strongly blushing face. Deeming it wiser to hurry along to shorten the discomfort of both parting from her and her own bashfulness. He kicked the hart and set it to meet the rest of his party ahead on Skyhold's cobbled cross bridge.

 

o0o

 

The ruins' statues prompted the voices ringing inside his head much more strongly. As he stood in front of Falon'din, they washed him with thousands of wisps of meanings and messages which he could never dream of separating. Only one word in ancient Elvhan rang incessantly; descendant. Emma'lin.

 

“Through my blood...” Another whisper supplied which he spoke aloud. He touched the mural depicting the elven god's depiction with his right hand. The other still held his bow at the ready.

 

He could feel... something important. A truth that was both terrifyingly dangerous yet beautiful simultaneously. That sensation made his skin crawl. He wished to be away... but the whispers of the well insisted. Something was here to be retrieved.

 

The rest of the scouts were reticent to enter this temple in the Emerald Graves. It was after all heretical to most of their beliefs, except the dwarves. Which he had brought a few with him. Their knowledge of ruins and Thaigs notwithstanding. He had closed a rift and the inner sanctum. It was now eerily quiet to the exception of drops of water coming from a hole in the corner of its roof. A tree's roots grappled strongly through the walls' face. Orlen was drawn to it after staring at it for some time.

 

There was rubble from the cave in, but something else was there. He remembered something about each tree, marking a grave. Wasn't this one sprouting from the temple itself? It seemed strange and almost supernaturally clawing at the ares.

 

He bade his men to upturn a particularly large block of rubble covering the corner; A gold and emerald artifact flecked and came into view. It looked to be circular and had some-kind of tree like design. It was nestled beneath the core of the tree. The filigree was in a specific pattern which mimicked his own Vallaslin. A brief elusive spark of recognition came to him and he yelled as one of his men reached out in curiosity.

 

“Don't!!!”

 

The poor sap had worn no gloves and the moment his fingers touched the delicate foil of a artfully crafted branch, a golden light, mimicking that of the veil spread in vine-like patterns up the tree it was nestled under. The moments of horror that passed afterwards were unavoidably quick and gruesome. Faster than thought, the soldier was both speared and torn practically in half by tree-limbs.

 

The roots unfolded, jerking as they spread to press to the stone floor of the temple. The stock of the trunk bent to a degree and clearly was the body of some-sort of monstrous creature. Orlen had heard of these beings. Legends of his clan's Hahren told that these were sacred. Created by his ancestors to protect precious areas and object to the creator god; Dirthamen.

 

It was a Varterral!

 

The tree was literally a grave mark as well as a guardian! What they had at first thought was some kind of oak, unfolded fully into the large powerful insect-like being. He could do nothing, tooted at the spot as his fellow soldiers either fled or were too shaken by their comrade's instantaneous violent death. They still wore the blood and gore of their fellow, staring in shock.

 

A few made prayers to the Maker as they saw their leader, himself, reach out with an assured hand to ward the monstrous insect like creature. The creature keened and pushed the remnants of the wall that kept it pegged momentarily. The Varterral would slay all of them! He knew that the forces he had brought were no match for this ancient guardian... if he did not intercede.

 

By instinct; he dropped his bow to the ground. Then threw his hands, palm facing upwards and fell to his knees in a plea-like posture.

 

“Ma Serranas. Ar Anaran Atishan. Hamin na, Halam'shivanas. Emma'len ma'vhenen. ”

 

The creature paused in its frenzy to attack and seemed to regard him for a moment. Though it was difficult to discern the creatures gaze, as it did not have eyes.

 

Orlen would never deny that he was scared out of his witts. He had no idea if the entity would stop as he spoke his plea and the creature was closer to him now than anyone else. The Varterral's sickle like inner-limbs, clawed but strangely humanoid reached out to him very slowly. As non-threateningly as a massive alien bug-like tree creature could be.

 

It ghosted upon his brow for a moment. As if tracing his Vallaslin. Then as suddenly as the creature had made its presence a threat, it receded and then froze. Regressing on itself. As if a spell had been cast to turn it back into the tree it had first mimicked.

 

His men, if not already awed of his supposed divine providence as 'Herald of Andraste'. Would no doubt be spreading more rumours from this occurrence. To Orlen, it mattered very little. He had kept the guardian from slaying more of them. He stood back up shacking. Picked up his bow and made his way to the fallen soldier's corpse. As best he could, he performed both Dalish and the Maker's death rites. Cassandra had been teaching him some of her religion. He had humoured her, as he respected her beliefs as much as she tolerated his own culture. But at least this... would comfort the men comming from their Herald.

 

The soldiers collected their remaining wits and went to retrieve the body. They eyed the tree wearily but he placed himself between the now inert Varterral and themselves. Once the party was relatively settled, Lavellan closed his eyes and listened as he worked towards the artifact. The well of sorrows became faint as he extracted the object.

 

It appeared to be a plate of some-kind. The inlayed trunk of a tree had a glass-like inlay with some sort of liquid inside it. The leaves were some kind of either emerald or Nevarrite. There was written Elven upon its edges, which looked decorative for anyone with no knowledge of it. Though he had very little experience with the symbols, having neither been First or Second to the Keeper. He could read them as easily as if he had known them all his life.

 

_-While we follow Falon'din, to Dirthamen we now lay our secrets and our hearts. Oh Keeper of secrets! Let not our kin be stripped of our last thoughts for them. Our family is as strong as our faith, as is your brother to yours. Let our spilled blood be the path (Vir) that keeps them safe from harm.-_

 

Orlen frowned. The human language did no justice to the translation in his head. This was truly meant to be spoken in elven. The nuances and double standards of the language was better adapted to it. This... whatever it was, was suspiciously like a phylactery or a magical implement of somekind. He would need to bring it back to Skyhold for more studying.

 

With one last look at the Varterral. He bowed out of respect for it and its guardianship, and made out with the Inquisition forces back to Skyhold.

 

o0o

 

The 3 day ride back to the Inquisition's keep was tense. He could tell that his men were not in high spirits and he unfortunately had no way to remedy this as of yet. They did not know what the object was that had one of their own slain. Suspicion and doubt reigned as to his motives and though he did not question their loyalty, he had no answers to give them as of yet.

 

When they were back, he sat down with The Iron Bull and the big man supplied the latest rumours and gossip in the Inquisition's rank. The Qunari admitted that his deadly venture seemed to be a Dalish elf's vanity project.

 

A vanity... project.

 

With no purpose in serving the Inquisition.

 

Looking down at the plate, he could see why. What was it? He hadn't brought it the Inquisition's mage tower yet. He had it in his room upon his desk. For the last few days he had pondered its meaning. The voices were silent. Nothing forthcoming.

 

He growled. Frustrated at its silence. What was the point of his retrieving this object if it had no practical applied purpose? Was this indeed a trick of the mind that the whispers of the Vir'Abelessan had thrown him to? If so. A perfectly good intentioned person had died for it.

 

This was what he had been afraid of! Exactly this! That the well had driven him of its own whims and outside of his intended path for the Inquisition.

 


End file.
